Episode Six: A Taste of Power
Later, people passed through the halls, only a few peering through the squares in the lattice before trundling on. When he tested the door latch it was as set as stone. Only a spell would work it.
Not knowing what else to do Hamar explored his room in smaller detail and peeked behind the edges of the wall tapestries to discover empty scroll shelves. The smoke hole in the ceiling was surely a shaft to somewhere in Al Musar, – the place of cold smoke in that spooky alley? – but he could see no dot of light through its tunnel, could hear no voices. He circled drawings in his velvet bedspread, the feel of it sweet to his fingers. What was next?
After the long afternoon the traffic of students dwindled outside and food smells came into the hall as servants clattered by. One of them mumbled at the door and it unlatched, letting in a thin man with another brass tray of delights. This servant again kept his eyes down, never looking up at Hamar as he set the tray down in front of the cushions. Then the man went to a box by the door and pulled out an urn with a lid, and he made a slight squat, dead-faced, to let Hamar know to relieve himself in it and put it back afterwards. Were the down-turned eyes respect? or didn’t Hamar yet count as one of them, – someone not at all used to higher ways? When the man went out the door Hamar lowered himself on a cushion and began pulling apart a roasted quail from the tray.
A servant woke him the next morning, the bedroom more familiar to Hamar now. When he was alone Hamar washed all of himself in the room’s freshly filled basin, enjoying the hot water. A new tunic was there, the other one gone. Was this what all his mornings would be like? But still, he was trapped in a cage awaiting his captors.
He filled the urn in a corner away from sight, and closed the used cloth into it, shutting the lid. The small flask was there and he rubbed fragrant oil all over his skin, its exotic scent cancelling the smell in the room, social habits making sense to him now.
The halls soon had bustling students with places to get to, none of the people stopping to peek at him. But before long the lattice squares went dark as two adepts came to get him. Hamar stood unsure, but not shaking any more, as they came into the room.
“You’re dressed,” one said, pleased. The other fastened Hamar’s coat for him, sniffing, “Wash longer next time. And use more of the rose oils.” The purple cape was lifted from its stand and circled onto Hamar’s small shoulders Then they stood to either side of the door and nodded for him to pass through.
They were almost alone in the halls, only a few faces peering out of classrooms as they passed. For whatever was to come Hamar hoped the strange confidence would be back, more than the mere familiarity he was beginning to feel, but he trembled again when the taller man warned him,“There is no time to waste, Hamar, mystes. Today you will begin the reading of your chants.”
Read!
They marched Hamar through a door into a room that had a rug on the floor and jars of scrolls around the walls, but nothing else. In the lamplight he could see the rug had symbols with straight lines crossing all over it. The men sat down at the edge, motioning him to join them.
“Conjuring mat,” said one of them, as if they expected him to know of it. The other man reached for a scroll.
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